


The Scars I Made

by K___Kelly



Series: The Creation of Caleb Widogast [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caleb Widogast Angst, Caleb Widogast Has Issues, Caleb Widogast Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Caleb Widogast is a Mess, Caleb Widogast's Backstory, Caleb Widogast-centric, Cutting, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt Caleb Widogast, I love my hobo wizard but he always needs help, Scars, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, This shit is dark, major trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22090153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K___Kelly/pseuds/K___Kelly
Summary: Not all the scars on Caleb’s arms are from crystals
Relationships: The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast
Series: The Creation of Caleb Widogast [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1609750
Comments: 3
Kudos: 188





	The Scars I Made

**Author's Note:**

> Please be mindful of the tags and don't read this if you are triggered by self-harm of any kind this fic is very dark and I want everyone to be safe!

Caleb wakes up in the middle of the night to find the campfire still burning and poor Caduceus exhausted and passed out beside it. Caleb had already taken the first watch, but the lingering horror of his most recent nightmare prompts him to go sit up next to Caduceus and take the last watch as well. He’s fairly certain Beauregard had been assigned to this watch but since Caduceus has not woken her and she has not woken up of her own volition, he sees no reason to disturb her sleep. As he makes his way over to the fire he can see the lights of the city in his peripheral vision and he shudders involuntarily. Even though they are outside of Rexxentrum they are still much too close to the city for comfort. The ghosts of experience seem to roam even the borders of this living memory. In the firelight he can see his exposed arms which are no longer covered in bandages but are still a source of shame. He never told the rest of the Mighty Nein the real reason why he had finally decided to remove the bandages. It was not because the scars that still might hide grains of residuum have stopped itching and burning. No, not at all. In this city especially they burned to the point where he had barely restrained himself from scratching away a full layer of skin on his forearms and he had briefly considered finding a dagger or a knife to cut into the scars and try to cleanse them of whatever remaining influence they still hold, to indulge himself in some desperate attempt to rid himself of the persistent feeling of crystals sickeningly shifting under his skin. 

But…that’s not why he stopped wearing the bandages. It has more to do with the fact that he is a mage and so his arms are always in sight twisting in intricate patterns to fulfill somatic components and after months on the road with his family of fellow fuck-ups he decided that he’d come too far to slip back into old habits, but he needed some sort of reminder. When they met Orly he had briefly considered a tattoo, but it was too complex, too hard to explain and there was far too much he couldn’t bring himself to even consider explaining. So instead, when he got rid of the tattered coat and washed away the protective layer of grime he burnt the bandages with them. So that he could see the scars. Not the ones made by Trent Ikithon’s overly inquisitive fingers. No. He wants to see the scars _he made_. The ones he had scratched into his arms during his years in the asylum, and the ones he had carefully carved to remove splinters of remaining residuum in the weeks following his escape, but especially the tiny circular marks that could be easily mistaken for freckles or moles, but he knows _he knows_ that they are scars. Those tiny marks that don’t burn or itch or scream with horrific memories those are the ones he is most ashamed of, because he made them during what have been some of the happiest months of his life. They were imperceptible attempts to fight back demons on lonely late-night watches. As they have grown closer their watches have become more friendly but for months when he and Nott had traveled alone and when he insisted on watching alone his only companion had been a single wire, usually intended for sending messages but also useful for relieving some of the building pressure in his mind. 

His mind is his greatest weapon the only real asset he offers to the group and it has to be in working order as much as possible. He can’t afford to let it be constantly clouded by memories or trauma, by the choking sensation which robs him of his ability to move or think or breathe. He’ll do anything to avoid that and over the years he has found that a small amount of pain aptly applied to sensitive patches of unscarred skin hidden beneath the wrappings is enough to bring him back to reality. Tiny puncture wounds made with the heated end of a dull wire are a small price to pay for the moments of relief they bring. In the firelight they almost look like hand drawn stars, he can easily imagine Jester connecting them into a constellation of sorts and the thought almost makes him smile…almost. If she knew why he’d made them there would be tears in her violet eyes and he’d already vowed never to tell any of them about these scars. Because despite the relief, safety, and good company the Mighty Nein brought into his life this habit had increased after they met. Maybe it was the stress of daily dangers constantly nipping at their heels, but his desire to balance the pain in his mind with physical pain that he could control only increased during their early adventures. Control was such an undeniable part of why he did it, the other scars had intent, evil intent mind you, but still there was _meaning_ to them. Unlike the scars no one else can see. The ones that are invisible images burnt behind his eyes of his family home and his parents burning in the flames he created. The screaming scars of lies and manipulation and betrayal. He feels them constantly, the heat of their silent infection pounds in his temples, blurs his vision, bringing on what Mollymauk and Beauregard had aptly named his ‘thousand-yard stare’.

But one night only a few days after he escaped from the asylum he deliberately wounded himself with the intent of making a scar for himself. A sign of his internal pain that he could see and feel so that it exists somewhere outside of his tortured mind. He dug a sharpened stone right above the joint in his left wrist and pressed down, down, until he could feel the blood and hear it dripping in the darkness. The first time the ecstatic rush of pleasure didn’t come with any guilt, because he deserved to suffer and more than that it relieved the indescribable pain that plagued his thoughts and ached somewhere deep in his chest. That was for the loss of his mother. The second one mirrored on his other wrist was for his father. The third wound slashed across chest was for his humanity lost to Ikithon's training. The third one wasn’t as deep, partly because his hands were slick with blood and partly because he intended to live with these wounds at least until they became scars. Or until he possessed the power necessary to turn back time to when his skin was soft and completely unmarred by anything more vicious than a clumsy kitchen knife. The next day he had woken up surrounded by his own blood and concerned that he would bleed out from the vicious wound on his right hand. He had some salve which he’d stolen in his escape, he applied it liberally and wrapped it in some scrap cloth. A few weeks later it healed without a scar along with the slash across his chest, they both scabbed and healed with hardly a trace of the damage. But the cut on his left wrist left behind a white raised scar that momentarily satiated his desire of proof for his pain. After he took up with Nott he switched to the subtler method of the heated wire which was still effective and always left behind tiny star shaped scars to map out the pain of his memories onto his skin where they can be traced. 

Caleb had never told anyone this, but sometimes his greatest fear is that none of the things at the Soltryce Academy or with Ikithon had actually happened and he had killed his parents completely out of his own free will, and that his unremembered years in the asylum following their deaths yielded a lifetime of false memories and all of this pain that continues to circulate is something fictional he created and there’s no one in the world to ever blame but himself. Somehow though when he can see the pain and feel it sting purposefully against his skin he is reassured that it _was_ real and that he _had_ suffered, and that his guilt is at least partially shared. 

But now he doesn't need those reminders because he remembers how Jester had cried when he pulled those arrows out of his stomach and chest and how Beauregard hung her head low when he told her the truth of what he had done and what had been done to him. And how Mollymauk had slapped him out of his mind’s prison with a forceful affection that he’ll never forget. And Nott, dear sweet Nott, had held his hands firmly whenever she caught him scratching absentmindedly at his arms. After the first time she saw him draw blood she stopped him every time she caught him doing it. Even Fjord and Caduceus somehow understand him although he hasn’t been nearly as forthcoming with them. They at least understand enough to make sure he doesn’t stand watch alone anymore. 

And Yasha… Oh Yasha, she understands him in a deadly silent way that makes him feel a little less alone in his darkness because he knows she is fighting through her own. But he also knows if they were left together without the influence of the rest of the party they would probably destroy themselves in tandem. The guilt of living visibly weighs on his and her shoulders in a way that they each recognize but neither of them know how to lift it. And yet somehow together this merry band of misfits have managed to convince him that not only does his life have value beyond regret or guilt, but _they_ value his life even above their own. 

And that makes the pin pricks across his skin spark with _shame_. To realize that he has willingly hurt what he has seen them risk life and limb to protect, it makes him feel ashamed. And so now, he removes the bandages to keep that shame in his line of sight, to remind him that whether or not he _deserves_ _it_ they all care for him and they have carried him too far out of the darkness for him to fall back willingly. Even back there in that city of his destruction where he could feel darkness clouding his vision and clutching at his throat he refused to willingly give in. To do that is to betray them all, to fail them in the worst possible way. They stood him on his own two feet and even though his knees shook all through that city, he leaned on their strength stumbling but never falling. 

Tonight, he’s on watch alone and he hasn’t done that since the first time he saw Jester cry and Beau said something about sitting down and talking about his problems. He’s on watch alone and the much-abused wire is safely stowed in his components pouch. He’s on watch alone and he can see clearly in the firelight as his fingertips lightly trace the unborn constellations across his rough exposed skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my writing feel free to drop comments suggesting other fics or drabble prompts I'm always looking for ideas


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